


Indestructible

by Irena_Lyre



Series: In the Blood [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood Kink, M/M, Porn, S3 quotes, Scientific vampirism(?), Trigger warning: references to injury, Vampire!John, post-Reichenbach AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irena_Lyre/pseuds/Irena_Lyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Reichenbach Fall, Dr. John Watson becomes a vampire. For Science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the show has moved on, but I haven't. Here, have some Reichenfeels. Also, porn ahead.

“Baker Street? He isn’t there anymore. It’s been two years, he’s got on with his life.”

“What life? I’ve been away.”

Mycroft takes in a deep breath. “Exactly.”

\---

 

It’s for _work_.

Dr. John Watson found himself standing in the conference hall. At Bart’s. One of those spots in London he secretly vowed never to visit again. Why did he volunteer to do this stupid presentation in the first place? Just because it was one more thing to do, really, at the time not aware of the venue, of course.

The last couple of months had not been easy. At first, nothing made sense. Then the days got blander, and better. Moving out of Baker Street was a good call, and work, work was great. Not _brilliant_ , brilliant is reserved for another kind of work, but _great_ is a nice enough way to put it. When in the office, endless queues of people to help and lives to save would take his mind off grimmer things, thank God.

After all, he was a doctor.

John glanced around. Other doctors. Some faintly familiar faces. Posters. Deformed organs. Blood sample analysis. _Blood. Pulse. Pavement_ – fuck. John squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. He just lost The Game. _Don’t think. Relax. Casual memories resurface._ The last time he stood in this exact room, he was younger than he could now remember, nervous in an ill-fitted suit, following his advisor around, and taking notes of the jargon-packed tenuous reports on the advances of the medical science.

Ah, the _science_.

“Dr. Watson.”

John turned around, took the business card handed his way, politely reading it over before tucking it away. Henry Aždaja, MD, PhD was a tall fellow, extremely well-groomed and clean-shaven even by a doctor’s standard. His sharp eyes were glinting with amusement as he extended his hand to John. “Congratulations on your meticulously prepared presentation, although you were totally not into it, were you?”

John shook the hand firmly, albeit staring back. “Excuse me? But thank you, I guess. Your report on the synthesis of proteases was, erm, interesting.”

“Do you really think so? I am glad,” A ghost of a wink flashed upon the corner of Dr. Aždaja’s eye. “Proteases are such a helpful substance, more so than people realise. If I may, could I perhaps entertain you with a little more details in my lab just upstairs?”

John blinked. “Um, thanks for offering, but that’s really not my area…”

“Oh don’t be absurd, John,” Dr. Aždaja ignored John’s defiance at the self-proclaimed familiarity, “Do you have the faintest idea of what proteases _do_? They stop people from _hurting_.”

\---

 

The Toxicology Department was as bustling and chaotic-orderly as John remembered it, but Dr. Aždaja’s personal space was far more isolated. Upon their entry, Dr. Aždaja closed the door. It was not as brightly lit as most labs should be, but the reflections from the mirrors on all four walls made up for it. John could see the image of the two of them literally infinite times, and it was a bit eerie.

“What do you want from me?”

Dr. Aždaja did not suppress an appreciative smile, briefly showing teeth. “You do not trust me, and you do not even like me, yet here you are, in a strange lab with a strange man. Is it the danger?”

John could not speak. The way this dialogue was going too strikingly resemble one he had had before, and for a second he almost punched the tall man in front of him, to see if he was real, or if the past months had been a case of, as they say, trolling.

The man squinted at his half-clenched fist. “Now you’re getting confused. Don't be. As much as I enjoy the condescendence, I would rather not play with a human’s mind for long. I am getting to the point. Observe, and think, as your friend did.”

A sudden change came over Dr. Aždaja that John found hard to describe. Maintaining the keen composure, all the blood seemed to have drained from his face. His eyes brightened, yet his lips darkened. From the mirror in Dr. Aždaja’s back, John was suddenly aware that he could still see infinite reflections – but, this time, only of himself.

“Shake my hand again.”

John steadily held the outstretched hand, for no good reason. It was still supple, but stone-cold. He reflectively searched for a pulse – _damn, not again._ And again, there wasn’t one.

“You see, I’m not sorry that I do not glitter in sunlight.” Dr. Aždaja said lazily. “There are cooler traits to our kind.”

\---

 

“Venom.”

“How colloquial.” Dr. Aždaja rolled his eyes as he pushed trays full of vials of clear liquids back into the refrigerator. “Too much an oversimplification for hundreds of protease varieties with specific features. Vampirism is an exact science, John. Gone is the age of the silver bullet, the cross, and the garlic – argh,” he smirked appalled, “and the image of a winged ugly creature sinking its teeth into a human throat is but an outdated human fetish. We were once humans, after all. And think of the human science achievements collectively accumulated from your 60-something lifespan. How are we supposed to do any lesser, when we live on _forever_?”

“Yes, the sanguine plasma, your _smoothie_. I am impressed, that.” John said in all honesty.

“I know you are. Like the _venom_ , our _food_ is also artificially synthesised from 100% plant extracts. That’s what we call a _vegan diet_ , albeit through needles.” Dr. Aždaja chuckled. “Mind you, the primal desire for human blood still persist in our systems, but the benefits of a peaceful coexistence with humans far outweighs the-”

“Why me?”John interrupted.

“Why you, Dr. Watson, why indeed. As I was saying, even with abundant supplies of sustenance, the irrational craving for human blood is still a danger, and our community would rather welcome a member with very strong moral disciplines and nerves of steel-”

“No, no, stop it.” John pushed his hands down at the bench in desperation. “Not as in, why _me_ , as if I’m at your fucking job interview. But as in, _why_ me – why, would you think, I would want _this_ , want to stop being human? Do you just assume that everybody wants to live forever?”

_Forever. Why would anyone want forever, when this lifetime is already so bleak._

“Being human? Too overrated these days.” Dr. Aždaja raised an eyebrow deridingly. “Because, John, humans have _feelings_ – is that serving you well? Oh, pardon me, I forgot that you can’t see yourself the way I can, can you?” He mockingly put on a face of sweet sympathy. “Mind you, I have not seen you firing at a psychopath, or deduced anything clever from your clothing or your pose, like your human friend did. I was simply reading everything from your memory – your mind. Ever wondered what your mind looks like?” Dr. Aždaja took a step closer. “When you stood in that room, I saw – what a view! A singularity, a gaping black hole, a swirling vortex wrecking the emotional balance of the whole bloody Bart’s! You’re losing who you used to be, Dr. John Watson.”

John did not answer.

“I would love to say that I am a doctor and I like to help, but that’d be lying.” Dr. Aždaja resumed his neutralised expression. “Instead, I’ll just admit that I consider myself a scientist seeking out guinea pigs. Don't make that face – it’s an offer. This _specimen_ ,” he pulled out an unlabeled tiny beaker and a set of needle and syringe, “is still in beta, but the promised effect is an erasure of feelings, along with enhancements of perception. Plus, that which comes naturally – _immortality_ , if you be willing to forfeit, say, your soul, and take this world as the best shot. It would hardly go wrong to trust me in something I have been practising for well over 300 years. Think it through, John. Remember, it’s all for Science.”

John blinked. This world would hardly be the best shot, but what he used to think about souls had died a long time ago in Afghanistan.

_Well, if there are no feelings, immortality would not matter, right?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things - a big thank you to everyone who's reading and responding already! It means a lot.  
> To begin with, I thought this idea was a bit odd. Then I remembered it's FANFICTION for a show that's already gotten weirder than many fanfictions. Enjoy!

_Liars_.

“The alibi of the husband is completely bogus. Go after the second cousin, he’s also involved.” Still panting from the pursuit, John held up a hand to the wall to support himself, sirens and flashing lights all around.

Lestrade was speechless. “The… the dagger went through your leg.” He pointed down to John’s bleeding calf as if it weren’t obvious enough.

John shrugged. “Well, I was a soldier, I’ve had worse. Keep your shock blanket.”

As soon as Scotland Yard was out of sight, the colours on John’s face vanished. The sweat on his forehead dried, and the wound sealed up.

 

_The first few days were really tricky_ , John mused. No more food, no more sleep, no more blood running in his veins – although, he was capable of summoning warm-blood functions – or as Henry put it, “switch yourself on.” That also included a reflection in the mirror, and the like. _None of the vampire stories make sense now, thanks to Science._ Except that, everyone suddenly looked like food. The reception girl – _toast_. Diabetes patient – _shepherd’s pie_. Stamford – _donut_. Molly – _cheesecake_. Stray cats in the neighbourhood – _soya milk_. Every time a thought like that came up, John would mentally kick himself hard, and carefully go for an allocated dose of the synthesised sanguine plasma. It was nothing like food, but that was all right. Tasting things, and _feeling_ things, were a distant memory.

Soon enough, John found out the downside of needing no sleep. Too much time on hand. So when Lestrade gingerly asked for his help to review a few cases, John went with him in a heartbeat – oops, bad pun.

The thrill was as good as the old days, and additionally, the scent of blood was such a turn-on. John tried not to feel guilty about that.

It was at the end of the chase that the effects of enhanced perceptions came crashing unto him. John was never much for pulling information from things, but when he saw anyone remotely suspicious, he might as well be _reading their mind_. The lies were laughable, and the pretences pathetic. _Aren’t ordinary people adorable?_

The exclamations from Scotland Yard did little if anything at all to sooth his irritation. His little world of what may be termed blissful ignorance was now gone. With the number of cases he cracked, Dr. Watson’s sourness grew. _Am I supposed to feel that?_ _Funny._

“John, you have not been eating lately.” Lestrade paused from putting away case files to look at John.

“Hmm, all for the work.” John gave a simple nod. “Who needs food?”

Anderson and Donovan exchanged an uncertain look.

“Look, mate, it’s a consensus of Scotland Yard now.” Lestrade stepped from behind his desk, putting a hand on John’s shoulder. “You are becoming like, um, you know…him. It’s almost scary. And you don't talk about it. I don't mean to…but I think we can talk about it, if you want to.”

A lump formed in John’s throat. _Oh, damn the human form._ “Oh really? Man Possessed by Friend Who Committed Suicide, is that what you are thinking? How DailyMail-worthy. Because surprise, now I’m suddenly smart and good at things, and it doesn’t make sense?”

_Wait, what did I say? Should not have talked like that, to Lestrade of all people, who comes closest to understanding –_

Lestrade took a step back. “No, I…Shit. Sorry.”

John pushed through the door. “No thanks, I don’t want to talk about it.”

\---

 

That night, John lay in bed, although there was no need for it. _Finally, it is said._ He is becoming Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant. Cold. Prickly. Focusing hard just to function. Knows everything, and hates everything. Amused, yet appalled by this wonderful, marvellous, filthy, stupid world.

_Alone._

Christ, has it always been like this for Sherlock?

For the first time since forever, John wanted to feel something. But feelings are not for him now. Tears, a human thing, would not happen, unless he makes an effort to activate it. So he did, and was immediately greeted with streams of foreign warmness gushing from one eye, into another, then down to the pillow. The sobs were impossible to control, now that he had been out of practice for months. Also, what ugly strange noises - he turned down his face to muffle himself. _Science be damned, this is so fucked up._

_What would I not give to go back, back to the start._

\---

 

“This is not what I signed up for.”

“Beta, John,” Henry shrugged, “hence the test. When I said feelings, perhaps it was more in terms of the physical, since you are in total control of your body. But as with any other research, the psychological waters are far more uncharted. I am sorry if it’s not what you expected. Science is a rocky road.”

John’s eyes flared. He slammed Henry into one of the mirrors. “And I can’t go back now, can I?”

“Whoa, easy, mate, that’d be enough to snap a human skeleton.” Henry brushed him off. “Going back? You mean a reconstruction of the metabolic system and such? Nah. The only option is giving up, and that’s Death.”

John’s hands fell. He stood very still to absorb this sobering fact. He is stuck _forever, with feelings_. Or -

With a smirk, Henry straightened his jacket, and stuck both hands into his pockets nonchalantly. “In the Olden Days it takes a verdict from Rome and some flashy tricks. Thanks to Science, in your current body you may drop this moment if you choose to. But should you?” Henry leaned in, the annoying glint in his eyes. “As fragile as human lives are, I would not have wantonly wasted one. I have always had faith in you since we first met, John Watson, that you will persevere. Twisted as your choice was, has there not been a glimmer of hope amid the vortex of darkness in your heart, all along?”


	3. Chapter 3

_Alone._

Sherlock hangs his coat and scarf on the hook. It is a strange thing to do, considering he’s in somebody else’s place, uninvited. More possibly, unwelcomed. His heart swells at the thought of the current tenant, but the familiar scent is not in the air. There are virtually no signs of life, except for the volumes and papers that spread all over the living room. _Crimes. Medical journals. Gore. Sensational literature. Shakespeare – really? More crimes._ Almost as messy as Baker Street, sans the takeout cantons. The bathroom is impeccably clean, or rather, disused, void of any half-empty product. The single bed has barely been slept in, although the sheets have been recently changed. Sherlock narrows his eyes as he opens the fridge. No milk, no jam, no beers.

Only rows and rows of unnamed clear liquid.

It’s half past five. _Anytime now._ Sherlock wanders back into the living room and huffs. He considers sitting down on the sofa to calm his nerves, but there is only one, and it’s not his spot. He paces in front of the fireplace, eyes suddenly caught by the mirror hanging over it. _How did I miss it_? He stares into his own reflection, until the well-anticipated footsteps are behind him.

“Not dead.”

Sherlock turns around to see a pale face. A familiar face, without a doubt, but strange. Greyish, ghastly, lifeless, the eyes that used to be brilliantly blue now resembling copper, but the warmth is still there. _At last._ A thousand words flood his mind, but what comes out is only _logical_. “Is that a statement, or a question?”

“Either way you like.” John’s voice is calm. “You see, I would very much like to punch you in the face, but I am afraid that I’d break those cheekbones.” He steps up to the fireplace, silently bidding Sherlock to turn to the mirror by a light touch on his shoulder. Even through the fabrics of his suit, the coldness sends Sherlock shuddering. “Don’t you love a reminder of a previous life? I just put it up there to help me carry on _like a human_. Watch it, Sherlock, it’s quite neat.” John squirmed slightly. _Focus._ In the mirror, an image of his face regaining colours paints itself next to Sherlock’s expression of astonishment. And John says quietly, “I have changed, Sherlock. I am sorry.”

Sherlock falls. “Forgive me, John, please forgive me.”

His knees are on the floor, and his arms wrap around John so tightly, shoulders twitching now and then. John sighs deeply, feeling the damp spot in his stomach. _Tears and gross sobbing._ Not exactly typical of Sherlock Holmes. But then, two years is a very long time. He looks down at the thick mop of dark curls on a very intelligent head. _Oh, that’s what Henry was talking about._ Guilt, shock, sorrow, regret – everything twirling into a grotesque hollow, the opening to an abyss. A mirror image of John’s very self, on the pavement, two years ago.

_Dear Lord, you are a wreck._

_Like me._

John waits until the onset of sentiments has gradually worn down to gently push themselves apart, so that he could also crouch down. “Please, Sherlock, I think our apologies can even out? It’s fair to say that we have both died _once_.”

Sherlock still looks a bit distraught, his cheeks slightly blushed from the rubbing with John’s shirt. John smiles as he traces his now-warm fingers on Sherlock’s jaw line, holding it in place. “Now deduce this, smart arse.”

Sherlock’s lips taste of fish and chips. _Food_. Food that they used to share. _How long ago was that?_ But the touch is new, and entirely thrilling. At first it is just lips nibbling at each other, then their tongues glide together all too easily. Sherlock’s head turns from side to side, in silence. The short busts of damp, warm puffs that is his breath is too real, it feels unbelievable. For a moment John is tempted to open his eyes and indulge himself in the view of a supernova of blissful fulfilment if he looks now, but he doesn’t. He is too busy _feeling_ , feeling the man who has come back kissing him back.

_Christ, should this have happened two years sooner._

_But that’s beside the point now._

When they are equally out of breath, there are still tears in Sherlock’s eyes. John moves up his fingers to ruffle Sherlock’s unruly hair, watching the lines around his eyes crease. Sherlock’s smile is more of a breath, a slight exhale from the nostrils and a brief tightening of the upper lip. John’s nose nuzzles Sherlock’s as he presses their foreheads together, in a pronounced effort to _read_. Gone is the black hole, as the remnants of the supernova spin in a dance, making John dizzy. _Go deeper,_ and John almost instantly regrets it. He pulls away in terror, and Sherlock winces.

_Unspeakable, a fair portion of the two years was._

John sighs. “Show me.”

Sherlock does not move, his eyes flickering.

“Sherlock, you are hurt.” John stands up, stretching out a hand. “Let me be your doctor.”

_Yes. Again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fervently writes* *posts* *whistles nonchalantly* Did I say porn? Yes. It's happening.


	4. Chapter 4

“You idiot,” John mutters, “you are the biggest dumb-arse in all of England.”

Sherlock’s lean upper body is marred by various shades of scarlet or purple. The more recent ones have been well-tended, while the earlier ones are here to stay. _Cruel_ _humans._ John inspects each with a doctor’s attention. Even the means of their acquirement are visible to him - he shuts his eyes tightly to shun the excessive information. _Christ, I never asked for this_. “Beasts. Animals.” he spits through gritted teeth, “I will hunt them down.”

Sherlock smiles. Not a spiteful smirk or a pleased grin, but a genuine smile that radiates from his softened eyes, and it wrenches John’s gut. “It’s all history. Kiss me, John, and make it better.”

John complies. His human blood is boiling, either from rage or lust. He briefly dips into Sherlock’s parted lips, before moving on to his jaw line, his neck, his shoulder. He carefully tries to avoid the wounds, at the same time couldn’t help caressing them with the tip of his tongue. Small noises of agreement escape Sherlock’s throat. _Tinge of blood._ John jolts. _A first taste._ The tang sends a shiver down his spine, and he becomes embarrassedly aware of his own cock thickening against the trousers. He stumbles to rest his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder as an attempt to steady himself, only to find the maddening beats of a throbbing pulse against his nose. _Dear Lord, too much heat –_

Sherlock’s hands are pulling at his shirt. John laughs against Sherlock’s neck.

“Off,” Sherlock snaps, “everything.”

\---

 

The mutual stripping is most efficiently done. The limited space on a single bed is somehow a very convenient setting for cuddling. For a moment, there is just gazing, touching, and staying.

“It’s…it’s gone.” Sherlock slowly runs his palm over John’s left shoulder, in amazement.

“I know.” John murmurs, as if anything louder would break off the unspoken connection between them. “Vampirism does that.”

In stark contrast to Sherlock’s bruises and scars, John’s skin is flawlessly creamy smooth. All the years of weathering and soldiering have been cleansed off him, whether he likes it or not, together with the possibility of ever being hurt again. _Unlike Sherlock._ He looks down into Sherlock’s glittering eyes, where he could almost see himself in the depth of those pupils. Their bare skins move together, and John’s mouth trails down Sherlock’s body. It is a craving, an urge, a burning passion to taste what is _human_ , the tragically, beautifully vulnerable. His lips gently suck on a nipple, and Sherlock gasps. So many nerve endings in one tiny spot. _Fragile. Fascinating. Downright edible._ The blood flow is making it harden, and John presses down his tongue forcefully, earning a sound that is close to a scream, as Sherlock’s torso arches and falls. John circles his tongue around the same spot while teasing the other with his fingers, and Sherlock thrashes, whimpering, cock impatiently prodding at his abdomen. John needs not looking up to interpret the surges of pleasure and want washing through Sherlock's body, yet he does. Sherlock’s messy curls stick to his sweaty forehead, his eyelids heavy, and his reddened lips glisten. John moves up again so that he could breathe in Sherlock’s heated breath.

“John,” Sherlock manages to say, “Gimme.”

“What would you like?”

“Everything.”

John holds Sherlock’s face in his hands to plant multiple brief kisses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes, his temples, before getting up.

 

\---

“Good?”

“Yes, yes – oh, God.” Sherlock groans.

In the past, John Watson used to accept that the life they shared was enough. How could _friendship_ with Sherlock Holmes not be enough? It’s extraordinary in its own right. But _this_ , the primal, basic, crude physical intimacy, is inciting more from this impossible man than he ever imaged. _Well, I was never known to be imaginative, was I?_ His post-Reichenbach dreams are laughing in his face now. John shakes his head. Staggered by the revealed spectrum of his inner yearnings, John wonders what exactly was in their way before. Did he really mind that people will talk?

_Why would I mind. Why would anyone mind._

Sherlock grunts as John fastens his grip on Sherlock’s length, the vertical movement smooth and effortless with lotion. The accelerated heart rate is affecting Sherlock’s raw openings, and the ferrous scent mingled with musky sweat rises in the air. _Fucking delicious._ John inhales sharply. His doctoral senses tell him that this is kind of wrong, but at the same time, his vampire brain decides that this is the best damn thing. Sherlock’s pleasure-drugged grimace verges on that of pain, and John hungers for more of it. He thumbs the tip of Sherlock’s cock, smearing his pre-cum all the way down to the root, before trailing his fingers to the perineum, then in between the buttocks to tentatively rub around the anus.

“Yes. Please.” Sherlock throatily responds to the unasked question.

John pours another generous dollop of the clinical lotion onto his palm to coat his fingers and slick up his own cock. He smirks a little as he lowers his hand. “Thank God I’ve got this from work, otherwise there’ll be nothing to use.” _Ah, the upside of being a doctor._

“Yes, great.” Sherlock huffs, “Come on.”

John does. “Lift,” he murmurs as he pushes a fingertip into the ring of muscle, the other hand guiding Sherlock’s pelvis upwards. Sherlock lets out a sharp cry, his head swaying frantically as he arches into the contact. John perceives the fine tremors in the enclosing warmness, and slowly works his way in, before adding a second. Sherlock’s cheeks are properly flushed, his whole body a steaming hot mess as he writhes along John’s fingers. John bites his lower lip hard to repress the impulse to sink his teeth into something. _God, is this dangerous._ He gives his fingers one final twirl before pulling out with resolute, turning Sherlock’s soft moans into a gasp of dismay.

“All right?” John whispers, a copper glow flashing in his blue eyes.

Without verbalising an answer, Sherlock spreads out his thighs unabashed.

\---

 

_Exposed. Invaded. Devoured._

John slowly rocks his hip, relishing every sweet counter-movement exerted from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s green eyes are hazy, blinking hard to keep out the dribbling sweat. His long fingers dig into the sheets in rhythm, where the fleshy wounds on his back have left faint impressions of crimson from the friction. In this John takes equal portions of indulgence and guilt; he finds justification in Sherlock’s want, the mesmerising acceptance of his girth into Sherlock’s behind, the tender, the unguarded, the most intimate, again and again -

“John. John.”

Sherlock’s voice is quivering. John grabs his hip with both hands, with enough force to leave a bruise. _For a second he does not care._ He needs to see him undone. Sherlock tenses and shivers with John’s name still on his lips, and John comes to a shouting finish. The sensation of his own ejaculation inside of Sherlock makes him all giddy, as he collapses onto Sherlock’s limp body, sharing a breathy laugh between them.

_Claimed._

 

\---

_Is this spooning? This is called spooning._ Sherlock’s back is turned to John, their legs nestling together in casual perfection. John presses chaste kisses to each nasty marking, murmuring sweet nothings. Sherlock’s shoulders relax in content.

_It is worth a wound. It is worth many wounds._

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Are you not in the least concerned, that you are in bed, with,” there is a pause, “a blood-sucker? Like, literally?”

_Is that supposed to be a question?_ “But you are still John.”

There is an exhale, and a long moment of silence. “I could have gone with you, you know. Kick arses together.”

Sherlock hides his face in the pillow, though John is not seeing him anyway. “I wanted you to stay in London. Get a wife. Or something.”

“As if.” John kisses the back of his neck.

The warm fuzzies are called the afterglow. _Or John._ Probably just John. But John has stopped talking. Why is he not talking?

_Say something. Something clever._

“Don't go.”

_Oh, that’s far from clever._ Too blunt, too stammer-ish, too sticky. Sherlock tenses up a little. Is it funny? Why is John laughing? But John just throws his arms around him, and turns Sherlock around, so that they are face to face.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

_Oh._

“If you want to raise a bee farm in Sussex, we’ll do it together. But before that, there are many other things I’m going do.” John picks up his hand to place a kiss. John is being very generous with kisses. _That’s a good thing._

“I will chase bad guys all over London with you. I will take a knife, a bullet, a hand grenade if it comes to that, because I can.” John is all very serious. _John._ “I will be your guardian demon.”

“And you, Mister Holmes, no more white knight roles for you. Never again will you get to shoot a bomb, or throw yourself off a building, or rush into a bonfire, or whatever.” John strokes Sherlock’s face lightly. “You are not indestructible, you know that?”

“Yes I am.” Sherlock retorts.

“And look at what you did last time.” John sighs in resignation. “My best friend is the biggest cock of England.”

“Statistically not -”

“Oh, shut up.” John closes in to plunder his mouth, but Sherlock pushes him away at a sudden realisation.

“Best friend?”

“Yes, best friend, in case you couldn’t tell, idiot.” John nods. “Boyfriend, if you don’t mind? Love. The one for me. Everything.”

And then, John kisses him proper.

“Together, we will be indestructible.”

\---

 

“Dr. Watson is back! Domestic bliss suits ya,” Sally greets the trio upon entry.

“Hardly,” Lestrade spits. “Now neither of them stops to eat, and I am starving.”

“Why, Gavin, is the honour of the work not enough to keep you alive?”

Lestrade doesn’t bother to correct him anymore. “I’m not even sure why I still keep you around, everybody knows John is better at handling the suspects.”

“You still need the evidence.” Sherlock sounds a little defeated.

“Come on Sherlock, let’s go home.”John tugs at the back of his coat. “You know what we ought to do after a really good case. A _brilliant_ one, that. You are brilliant.” He says that with a click, and Sherlock smiles in a way that’s only in the eyes.

Lestrade raises his hands in surrender at the absence of euphemism. “All right, all right, I take it that I’m not getting the records done today?”

“Absolutely not. Good day!”

“Laterz!” with that, Sherlock runs off with John giggling, can’t wait for a snog in the taxi.

“Bastards.” Lestrade mutters, as his smile broadens.

 

**END**

\---

 

“So it seems that your science does serve some purpose, Dr. Aždaja. My apologies.” Mycroft watches on around the corner, as the taxi pulls away from Scotland Yard.

“It’s not _our_ science, it’s _the_ Science.” Dr. Aždaja raises his chin. “Apologies accepted, Mr. Holmes, though not necessitated, since we don’t really expect mortals to fully understand our ways. In my expertise of over 300 years I have not stripped one single human of their life, except for my own, if that counts.”

“Oh yes, it does. Faking your own death is not the wisest course of all things, it seems.”

“Maybe.” Dr. Aždaja’s gaze fades into a far distance for a while, before turning back. “But as for everyone else, all I did was offering them an option.”

Mycroft nods knowingly. “And our choices ultimately make us who we are, don’t they?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEVER MIND THE SETTING I JUST NEED SHERLOCK TO CRY AND THEN HAVE KINKY SEX OK BYE FRIENDS I AM DEADED TIME TO GO TO THE NEAREST CLIFF LATERZ
> 
> On a more serious note: this is late-night writing, un-beta-ed. Please do point out any mistakes, I hope there are no huge turn-offs! As always, any feedback is welcomed.


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